


Stone of Death

by disillusionist9



Series: Choose Dare [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Horcruxes, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9/pseuds/disillusionist9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble #7 of 100 | Bob Ogden revisits the Gaunt home after a call to the Riddle Manor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone of Death

When your family is known as the foremost purveyor of Firewhiskey in the entire world, it takes a significant amount of dedication to completely evade public scrutiny.

Leonard Rupert Ogden knew more about the distilling process at age seven than any child should. Bob, a moniker based on his middle name he preferred to maintain his anonymity, felt he had already put in a good few decades into the family business before his thirtieth birthday. By thirty-five he was Assistant Department Head in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement which was as opposite as he could think to be compared to his brothers and still remain on the right side of the law.

Though he had no tolerance for lushes like many of his contemporary family members, Bob Ogden was not a man quick to anger. His level-headedness served him well in the Ministry, bringing him closer and closer to his goal of Department Head of the entire DMLE.

He cut his rise short in 1925. His experience at the Gaunt shack fueled his desire to have a more hands on approach to Law Enforcement and not tied to bureaucracy. Additionally the Heads of the Department were commonly in the newspaper and he rather hated public attention. Staying on the ground as Head of his squad kept him apprised of the changing political and safety climates of the wizarding world, which pleased his Slytherin heart.

Years after Morfin and the rest of the Gaunt family had vacated the old shack, Bob returned to visit Little Hangleton. The Manor on the hill was teeming with Aurors and Obliviators that were doing their best to mitigate the death of an entire family of Muggles that stunk of Dark magical residue. He mopped the cold sweat from his brow. Six victims, the youngest was barely ten and reminded him of his niece about to go to Hogwarts. The Muggles had their own war raging around him that was oftentimes used as a cover for sinister deeds by wizards and weeding out the offenders was growing more difficult by the day as the sheer number of perpetrators increased.

Gut feelings guided many of Bob's decisions in his career and rarely steered him wrong. The tugging he felt towards the copse of trees at the edge of town was undeniable but extremely meddlesome. He knew what lay beyond that copse. He'd visited it nearly two decades ago. The tugging was persistent, so excusing himself to one of his Deputies he stalked away from the Manor and through the invisible barriers placed around it to keep out Muggles and media.

The walk should have taken longer. He'd kept his head down facing his feet the entire way so was surprised when he bumped into the overgrown hedges surrounding the Gaunt shack. During his last visit the home had been in a state of disrepair, bordering on condemnation. Now the structure leaned precariously to the east and most of the windows were blasted out as if an explosion had occurred inside.

It was impossible to tell as he cross the threshold if the floors were bare of any foundation or were so filthy that the dirt obscured any wood or stone beneath. Patches of the filth gave way beneath his boots and he noted how other places appeared to have marks, marks that looked unnervingly like hands raked forcefully across the floor. The portions that were softer than others were tilled meticulously. Too late, he looked around him to note the distinct pattern and glyphs. Lighting his wand as his breathing hitched Bob saw the pale face of a boy standing outside of the pentacle.

"You're the seventh," hissed the thin lips in the handsome face. The Cheshire smile spread too far into his cheeks.

Bob couldn't move from the center of the pentacle, the writhing glyphs he couldn't recognize crawling closer to his feet. Burying him. Burying him alive. Where his body once stood a ring was buried to gather the remnants his soul left behind, binding Voldemort's first Horcrux.


End file.
